behind the floor lamp
in a dark corner of our living room
hides a web of concentric circles
and when the bulb clicks on
at bedtime it’s clearly more
dream catcher than spider’s snare
an untouched threaded perfection
I look and have yet to see a spider
perhaps it died after sculpting
a legacy left anonymous unsigned
sitting in a gallery no one sees
except me and I’ll show no one
let it hang there until the display
is swept away the body
inhaled in a bag of dust
our cleaning woman suddenly aware
of the eyes of other artists
watching her from the shadows
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